


Sizzle

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-14
Updated: 2005-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Oppressive July midday. Two men meet.





	Sizzle

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Sizzle

### Sizzle

#### by Griva

  


Title: Sizzle  
Rating: R  
Notes: a 200 words ficlet, answer to the Too Darn Hot challenge 

* * *

Oppressive July midday. Air like a blanket. 

I walk, you stroll, I imagine that from the rear, we resemble quite a peculiar couple... 

You must be grinning. You have even, white teeth and a crooked smile that makes your eyes crinkle every time you flash it at someone. Your eyes, serrated jade blades, cut into the back of my skull, where I know your gaze rests. They can see my thoughts; they know the striptease playing through my mind on repeat. A loop of obscenities and vulgarities that would terrify most, but not you. 

Stalking behind me with long, slinking steps, I know your gaze slips lower. Down to where my jeans do not quite cover my hips and my damp shirt stuck to my shoulder-blades. You could fit your hands around my waist, or very nearly, long hands with treacherous fingers. Exquisite hands, for all that your nails are bitten off and your cuticles are ragged. I can picture your hips, slim, and how the flesh must still be taut between them. 

"Lead on," you say. It gives me chills, the fluidity with which a Russian accent slips into your speech. 

"Get naked," I croak. 

I feel daring. 

Blistering. 

*end 

June 2005   
  

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Griva


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